“Go it,” he exclaimed. “Take those lines. Unbuckle your guns, Tom, old man, while I hold you.”
“Somebody put my spurs on him,” panted Tom, tugging at his belt buckle.
Words had been rapid, fingers worked fast; and almost in less time than it takes to tell it, after the halting of the coach, Davy was in the Pony Express saddle, with the final orders filling his ears.
“Now ride, boy; ride!”
Scarcely yet settled into the stirrups, he bounded forward (the jerk of the mettlesome pony almost snapped his head loose), and was away.
“Ride, boy; ride!”
Davy jammed tighter his hat; his feet clinging to the stirrups, he half turned in the saddle and waved his hand to the little group behind. They would see that he was all right. They were grouped just as he had left them: Mr. Mayfield standing, where he had strapped the spurs to Davy’s heels after Dave had mounted; Gentleman Bob half erect, over Tom, from whom he had passed the revolver belt.
But even as Davy looked, they all moved, preparing to lift Tom into the coach. Davy faced ahead and settled to his work.
“Ride, boy; ride!”
Well, he could ride! he knew how; and if he didn’t know how he was bound to stick, anyway. There were the plump saddle bags under him, crossed by his legs; he was carrying the fast mail—and Lincoln was elected!